


The Warehouse

by Nonesane



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, M/M, Pre-Slash, Transformation, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 21:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5885398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonesane/pseuds/Nonesane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three armed men have Holmes and Watson cornered. Facing certain death there is one impulse Watson for once can't fight back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warehouse

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a now defunct kinkmeme and posted [on my livejournal](http://nonesane.livejournal.com/15493.html) back in 2010.

The fury of the all too familiar blood-lust dimmed his senses for a second too long. The first snapping and resetting of the bones in his left hand - which should have had him crying out in agony - barely registered. Not even the beginning deformation of his spine or the burning itch of hair growing far too rapidly on his arms and legs could draw his attention away from the three armed men surrounding them.  
  
“Watson?” Never before had Holmes' voice sounded so mute and tentative.  
  
His only reply was a growl, low and rumbling and far from human.  
  
“Watson!” Holmes' voice rose in volume in time with the rise of terror in the other men's eyes. “Watson, answer me!”  
  
He knew the eyes that met Holmes' searching gaze must have been more gold than brown. Holmes would not have fallen silent or gone so still otherwise.  
  
One of the men gave a scream of pure, soul crushing fear. He threw himself at the warehouse door, just as Watson's jaw elongated in what he was sure was a most disturbing sight to behold. The burn-itch reached his face as he fell to his hands and knees, the dark gold of his eyes all the while pinning the two still frozen men in their place. He bared his teeth - now fangs - and growled at them, catching the rank scent of urine from the one on the left.  
  
A last bone clicked into place, sounding uncannily similarity to a gun being cocked. And then he was off.  
  
The first man fell without as much as a whimper, Watson's fangs buried deep in his throat. This started his companion enough to snap him out of his shock. He ran for the door a heartbeat thereafter.  
  
A rumbling rose up from somewhere low in Watson's chest; not unlike the purr of a cat, but darker and with a more canine tang to it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he edged closer to the two remaining men. He could smell their tears and dread, their life's blood where the splinters of the unyielding door had broken the skin of their hands.  
  
“Back to hell with you, monster!” the man on the right, the one Holmes had likened to a bull, suddenly bellowed, as if he'd just realized he was holding a pistol in his hand. “Back!”  
  
Avoiding the bullet was ridiculously easy. Had Watson possessed a human larynx and pair of lips at that moment, he would have laughed. The bull man's shaking hand's already unreliable aim was no match for Watson's superior speed. Before a second shot could be fired the pistol was on the floor, together with a fair share of the man's fingers.  
  
Twin cries, both from the bull man and his still breathing companion, echoed through the warehouse. Music to Watson's ears.  
  
Ripping their throats out took no real effort.  
  
Finally he stood panting among the fallen bodies of their attackers. Blood coated his fur and his muzzle. He choked on the metallic taste; at the same time as sweet as fine wine and as repulsive as sewer water.  
  
His ears perked up as the sound of very short, very human breaths reached him, just audible over his own uneven respiration. A scent followed it, tangible through the haze of blood and fear that clouded his faculty of perception. Although he'd only smelled it as a faint trace on his own clothes before, he would have known this scent anywhere.  
  
And it was the fear mixed within it that disencumbered his mind from the last of his murderous rage and joy of blood spilling.  
  
_Have to shift,_ was his first clear thought, _before he comes to his senses and shoots me. I have to..._  
  
The change back was far more excruciating, with pain not only caused by the twisting of his limbs. As his body reshaped itself the full realisation of what he had done dawned.  
  
Once he was human again sobs tore out of his chest as roughly as his growls had. “Oh God,” was all he could force out between them, his entire body shaking with the onslaught of his grief. He caught a glimpse of the nearest body, its eyes staring at him unseeingly, one cheek smeared with coagulating-  
  
“Are you hurt?” Holmes' voice, not as firm as he was used to, but steadier than he'd been prepared for. It had an undercurrent of concern as well as fear, which would have left him dumbstruck any other day.  
  
“I...” Watson tried to reply, pressing his hands against his face. He cleared his throat, stifling the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him again. “I am uninjured.” Taking a deep breath he made a faltering attempt at cleaning his face, managing only to smear the blood out more. “I won't attack you, I swear,” he whispered, lips numb. “I won't harm you Holmes, please don't...”  
  
Footfalls could be heard, unsteady and hesitant, but coming closer. A gloved hand on his bare shoulder started Watson enough to make him gasp. He clenched his eyes shut. The hand remained.  
  
“Of course you won't harm me,” Holmes said, or rather stated, the same conviction in his words as when he was sure he'd won an argument. “Such drivel I never expected from you, Watson.” There was a tone of what aimed to be humour in his voice, but it fell fairly flat.  
  
“I wager you never expected to see me tear three grown men to pieces either,” Watson replied with a shaky smile as he was enveloped in woollen warmth. Holmes must have found a blanket.  
  
“Three grown men armed with pistols and knives, ready to shoot and stab at us until we were little more than shredded skin and bones? Had you not attacked it would be us lying there in their stead. We have had to defend ourselves in this manner before and you will have no censure from me for saving us.”  
  
Watson forced himself to choke back a keening moan. It would be impossible to explain the joy of the kill to Holmes; the exhilaration caused by fear and blood and death, that drowned any sane, human thought. He would be no more able to put that into words than he could describe how sickened he was by himself once he was man again. Even Holmes had his limits.  
  
“It would be wise to continue this conversation elsewhere,” Holmes said, wrapping a supportive arm around his waist. “Can you stand?”  
  
Watson gave a nod. It would be a long walk home. 


End file.
